


Life is Too Short (Why Waste Time)

by tryslora



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Community: fullmoon_ficlet, Future Fic, Ice Skating, Jackson Comes Back, M/M, Minor Lydia Martin/Jordan Parrish, Minor Scott McCall/Kira Yukimura, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-20 01:18:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3631245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jackson learned to skate before he was out of diapers, but he gave it all up when he was thirteen for lacrosse and popularity. While in London he rediscovers his love for the ice, and upon returning to Beacon Hills, every moment he spends at the rink is a precious thing. Until his time is interrupted by Stiles Stilinski, and that turns his precious break from the rest of the world upside down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life is Too Short (Why Waste Time)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OnTheGround2012](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnTheGround2012/gifts).



> This was originally written for Prompt #113-Precious at fullmoon_ficlet. I honestly thought I wasn't going to get to write for the prompt this week. Then I stopped by otg2012's tumblr to check something out, and I saw _figure skating_ and I know she loves Stackson, and a few hours later this tumbled out of my fingertips. Thank you, m'dear, for the inspiration. The title is paraphrased from Pat Benatar's "Precious Time". As always, I do not own the world nor characters of Teen Wolf, I just like to play with them.

Once upon a time, Jackson knew how to skate. He grew up on the ice, hand in hand with Lydia, figure skating pairs partners from the moment they could toddle forth on their thin blades across the slick surface. He remembers the feel of it under his feet, the sense of freedom when he would glide and just _let go_ for a while. The music would get under his skin as he grew older, becoming an extension of his heartbeat, an audible map for his feet to follow, telling him when to reach and push, glide or jump. He loved the competition, loved fighting to be the top.

He stopped when he turned thirteen. He told everyone that is was because he made the middle school lacrosse team. He was _first line_ and he was _good_ and everyone loved him for it. He didn’t want to do anything like _skate_ where no one paid attention and he’d be lucky to even place at States.

He didn’t dream about Nationals anymore, not like when he was little. Jackson was realistic, and lacrosse was a sport for getting into colleges someday. He hung his skates in the back of his closet and pretended like they didn’t exist. When Lydia suggested skating as a date, he put her off, suggested something else and usually a kiss or two had her changing her mind.

He watched a lot of _The Notebook_ as penance. It was better than remembering how it felt to glide across the ice.

Then he left California and while in London he had nothing and no one, and the only thing that felt normal was the ice under his skates. He brought the new skates—shiny and sharp—with him when he returned to Beacon Hills for his senior year of high school.

But he didn’t tell anyone. That wasn’t a part of himself that he wanted share, not even with Lydia, not anymore. Instead he found a new routine for his life, carving out time for a precious escape onto the ice.

#

Jackson gets up every morning at five and goes to the rink. He spends an hour on the ice before he showers and heads to school, his skates hung carefully in the locker he’s rented back at the rink. He goes back in the evenings, after homework is done, once the public access to the ice is over, and he skates until he’s exhausted enough to sleep. It helps keep him sane and the wolf at bay.

He’s early one Thursday evening and tries to skirt the edges of the waiting area, where moms anxiously watch their wee ones wobble on the ice, testing their fledgling skills with little hops and spins. He spots a bright red flash of hair across the way, spinning out around Lydia as she tightens her arms, pulling them in to gain speed for her spin. He’d recognize her gleeful laugh anywhere, and he stops to watch, remembering.

“What the hell are you doing here?” A shoulder bumps into him, knocks him roughly. 

Jackson glares at Stiles out of reflex. “Skating,” he says dryly. “Which is more than I can say for you. Do you get your kicks watching people do something you’re too inept to even consider doing?”

Stiles rolls his eyes, the motion carrying through into a lazy shrug of his shoulders. “This week it was Lydia’s turn to choose the activity for my weekly fifth wheel adventure. Rather than movies, or dinner, or something where I can pretend I’m not the odd man out, she decided it was time for Kira to see how adorable Scott is when he trips over his own feet and face plants on the ice. So here we are, just in time to figure out that Kira’s charmed by Scott’s clumsiness and she’s actually _graceful_ on the ice—apparently skates count as blades to her power, who knew. And of course Jordan’s as good at skating as he is at everything else, so Lydia’s thrilled to have a partner worth her skills. And me, I’m wisely on the sidelines and avoiding everyone.” Another shrug. “They’ll remember they lost me eventually, and we’ll go get pizza.”

That was… more than Jackson needed to know. He snorts, shakes his had. “Just go skate, asswipe. Have fun. You’re only punishing yourself by staying here.”

“No, I’m saving everyone else,” Stiles counters. “I am _not_ good on skates. Arms and legs flailing everywhere with blades involved. It’s really not a good idea.”

“If an idiot like you can manage a lacrosse ball, you can manage skates.” Jackson points at the nearest bench. “Sit. I’ll be back in a minute and you’re going out on the ice rather than sit around like a fucking loser.”

It doesn’t make sense; Jackson can admit that to himself as he heads into the locker room. He should be ignoring Stiles, and ignoring Lydia and the others. He should be waiting in the back until the rink is empty, until everyone else has gone home and he can have it to himself. He won’t be able to skate properly right now, won’t be able to lose himself in the pleasure of it.

On the other hand, he’ll be able to remind everyone just how good he is. That this is something he can be the best at. And Jackson can’t resist a chance to show off.

He changes quickly, pulling on his skates and lacing them tightly. He slips the blade protectors on for the walk back to the rink and finds Stiles where he left him, sitting on the bench, looking a little bewildered. Jackson kneels in front of him, unties his skates and quickly fixes them, tugging on each lace in turn until they are tightly bound to Stiles’s ankles. “Never skate with loose skates,” Jackson says curtly. “Your ankles will wobble, and you’ll be a danger to yourself. Lace them tight enough that they don’t move, but not so tight they cut off your circulation.”

“The second point is debatable,” Stiles mutters, and Jackson laughs.

“Don’t be a wuss.” He stands easily, shucking the blade protectors and tossing them onto the bench. He holds out one hand and waits for Stiles to take it so he can haul him to his feet, catching his shoulders when he wavers. He helps Stiles start moving, walking awkwardly across the rubber mats until they reach the edge of the ice. “Stand there,” Jackson directs him to a point on the ice just inside the door, where Stiles can grip the wall for balance. “I’m going to do a lap for warm-up.”

“Why are you even helping me?” Stiles asks, slipping when he gets onto the ice and grabbing the wall quickly. “Why are you doing this?”

“To show off,” Jackson tells him, and he’s pretty sure he’s being honest. “Why else would I bother? I want everyone to know just how good I am.” He grins sharply and pushes off, coming to speed in a few short strokes as he finds his rhythm.

He knows the exact circumference of the rink, knows exactly how many steps until the first curve. He goes into the curve with a twist to send himself backwards, gliding before he does a jump; just a single rotation, just to test the ice. It’s scraped and raw right now after so many people coming through, with lessons earlier before the public access. He’s too early for the Zamboni to smooth it out, make it the kind of slick surface he prefers.

It feels good anyway, twisting, testing his footwork, feeling the eyes of others upon him as he moves. He passes Lydia and hears her breath catch, the way her heartbeat shifts as she watches him. He knows he has made an impression, and he loves it.

He stops with a quick motion right in front of Stiles, bows with a flourish and a mocking grin. “Will you skate with me?”

“Depends,” Stiles says, voice flat. “Is this all so you can drop me on my ass and laugh?”

“Might be fun, but it wouldn’t look good for me,” Jackson tells him. “They’re all watching. I want to look good.” He offers both hands, and when Stiles takes them, Jackson pushes off just enough to start gliding backwards. His strength tugs Stiles with him, helps Stiles stay up when his legs wobble dangerously. “Besides, how are you going to get a better instructor than a werewolf who can literally sweep you off your feet?”

“Is that what you’re going to do?” Stiles bats his eyes. “Sweep me off my feet?”

Jackson licks his lips, watches the way Stiles’s gaze tracks the path of his tongue. He wonders how far he could takes this, how far he _wants_ to take this. It’s not like Jackson’s a stranger to any kind of pleasure after London. It’s just that this isn’t the time or place. Not to mention that it’s _Stilinski_.

He decides to ignore it.

“Only if you’re going to fall. Skates are dangerous and I might heal if you stab me, but it’d still hurt like fuck.” Jackson nods, looking at Stiles’s feet. “You need to start moving or you’re going to end up on your face. Push off slowly with one foot, then the other. You want to glide.”

It isn’t as easy as he makes it sound, and it takes Stiles several tries to figure it out. On the first attempt he trips over his own foot and lands in Jackson’s arms still sliding along the ice before Jackson puts him back on his feet. Stiles holds on a little tighter, his fingers biting into the skin along Jackson’s forearms as he struggles to stay upright. Jackson shifts his weight, leans to counterbalance him and helps him move forward, bit by bit until they find a rhythm. As they approach the curve, Jackson leans, leading them into the gentle slope of it, making sure that they get around it safely before they hit the next straightaway.

“How long have you been skating?”

Jackson isn’t expecting conversation. His gaze flicks up to meet Stiles, and his foot stutters, just enough that he needs to correct and cling to the ice on one blade so that they both don’t tumble down. They’re passing Lydia and Jordan and he can feel the weight of her gaze on them, so he keeps his own attention entirely on Stiles, smiling as if he’s glad to be there, as if this meeting was _on purpose_ and not just a chance to show off.

Stiles smiles back and it’s bright and honest, catching Jackson off-guard. He’s not sure he’s ever seen that look before.

“How long?” Stiles prods, and they pick up speed, just a little.

“I started when I was three,” Jackson admits. “I spent ten years constantly on the ice. Lydia was my first and only partner until I quit. I could skate before I knew how to pee in the toilet.” It sounds strange, but he remembers the pride in his mother’s voice when she told the story of him skating while still in pull-ups. It meant something to her that he started that young.

It may also have meant something that he stopped skating as soon as he found out that the woman who was so _proud_ wasn’t his _mother_. That she was no one but a name and a person to feed him.

It may also mean that he’s come to terms with his adoption now, after that year in London. That he accepts his mother and father for who they are, and can love what they love again.

“Why did you quit?”

He gives the answer he’s always given. “Lacrosse.” He’s not going say anything else, not now. Maybe not ever.

Stiles’s hands are warm in his, loosening their grip a little as they hold hands rather than gripping arms. Jackson can feel the way Stiles moves now, like it’s easier, like he doesn’t have to think with every step. Jackson risks letting go of one hand, letting momentum swing him to Stiles’s side so that he can hook one arm around his waist to hold him up and they can both go forward, feet moving in concert.

“I can’t believe we didn’t just face plant on that,” Stiles mutters.

“I told you I’m good.” Jackson grins at Stiles’s doubtful expression. “I’m the best at everything, Stilinski. Never forget.”

“There are things you haven’t done,” Stiles counters quickly. “Things I’m better at than you.”

“You’re not better at skating.” 

Stiles nods. “I’ll give you that. But I’m better at investigation.”

Jackson tilts his head. “Probably,” he has to cede that point. It’s hard to argue since Stiles is the Sheriff’s son. “One point each. Try something else.”

“I’m better at blow jobs.”

Jackson’s foot slides too far, tangles with Stiles’s skate and they go down in a heap, werewolf reflexes the only thing between them and injury as Jackson does his best to rearrange them safely on the ice. Stiles is laughing, his cheeks bright red in the cold.

“The _look_ on your _face_ ,” Stiles chortles.

“What makes you think _you_ are better than _me_ at blow jobs?” Jackson snaps.

Stiles stops dead, mouth hanging slightly open. Jackson has to admit, he has a _good_ mouth, so maybe he’s _right_ , but it’s not like Jackson’s going to let it go that easily. After all, Jackson _is_ the best at everything he does.

“I’ve given one?” Stiles says, voice lilting up in a question as if he isn’t sure it’s the correct answer.

Jackson snorts. “That’s not proof. So have I.”

“You… what?” Stiles stares at him for long enough that Jackson can count the rapid patter of his heartbeat. They’ve been lying on the ice too long, and Jackson reaches for him, wrestles him to his feet and does most of the work to get them moving again, facing in the same direction this time, pressed hip to hip with Jackson holding Stiles up.

They pass Scott, who is staring at them, and Jackson doesn’t stop to satiate his obvious curiosity.

It takes almost a full lap before Stiles is doing more than being dragged along, and another quarter lap before they find their rhythm again, skating together well enough that Jackson can relax. It’s a full lap after that before Stiles finally speaks, his voice low.

“You have _not_ ,” he hisses.

“You say that like you think I’d have a problem with it.” Jackson stares at the ice ahead, shifting their path slightly to avoid where Lydia and Jordan are making their way to the side. “It’s sex, Stiles. I happen to like sex.”

“With Lydia.”

Jackson gives him a dark look. “I am not feeding your futile crush by talking about my past sex life with _Lydia_.”

Stiles laughs bitterly. “I am over that, Jackson. I am so over that, and it is so done. I actually like Jordan. Hell, I wouldn’t mind being in a Jordan and Lydia sandwich, but _that_ is never going to happen. We’re friends, and I won’t fuck that up. I like her too much to stick her with someone like me.”

“Hey!” Scott’s voice rings out, echoing slightly in the rink.

Jackson murmurs, “Hold on,” and lets himself spin slowly in place, bringing Stiles with him until they coast to a stop. He waits for Scott to catch up, smirking at the awkward gait for both Scott as flails his way across the ice, Kira gliding by his side. “Brilliant moves, McCall. Impressive.”

Scott looks past him towards Stiles. Jackson can scent concern. “We were going to head out, Stiles. Go get pizza,” Scott says.

There’s a skip in Stiles’s heartbeat. “Yeah, well, I don’t think I can make it off the ice safely on my own, so I’m going whichever direction Jackson goes next,” Stiles says. “He’s the only thing holding me up.”

Scott slowly shifts his attention. “You could join us for pizza, dude,” he offers, sounding reluctant.

Jackson is focused on the rapid tattoo of Stiles’s heart. He brings up one shoulder in a lazy shrug. “I’m staying to get some time on the ice in peace, without the crowds.”

There’s silence, and he can almost taste the anticipation on the air, as if someone is waiting for a decision.

“I can try to teach you, if you think you have any capability to learn,” he says, not bothering to point out that he’s talking to Stiles, not Scott.

“Hey, I’ve been doing fine, and it was your fault we fell,” Stiles protests.

“I’ve been holding you up.” Jackson snorts. “You’ve just been letting yourself get dragged around the ice and pretending to look pretty. No skill required. I could let you go right here…”

“No, you won’t.” Stiles gets his hand around Jackson’s back and holds on, his skates moving enough that Jackson has to dig in to anchor them both.

Scott makes a strangled sound. “So. Stiles. You’re staying here? With… Jackson?”

“Given that he seems to be refusing to deliver me off the ice, and is offering to teach me how to get back to the edge on my own, I guess so,” Stiles says. “I’ll be fine, Scotty. Just hitch a ride with Lydia and Jordan. I’ll need my Jeep to get home later.”

Jackson considers offering Stiles a ride home but that would be _wrong_ and he doesn’t think Stiles would just hand over the keys to his Jeep to Scott anyway. God knows Jackson wouldn’t hand over the keys to his Porsche.

When Scott hesitates, Jackson snaps, “For God’s sake, what the hell do you think I’m going to do to him? I won’t bite unless provoked.” He bares his teeth and flashes his eyes, not caring that Scott’s some true alpha bullshit. He’s not _Jackson’s_ alpha.

“You’d better not.” Scott’s threatening tone fails when he turns and his feet go out from under him and he lands on his ass on the ice. Kira tries to help and they end up in a heap, laughing and grumbling while Jackson slowly starts moving away with Stiles.

Jackson takes them on another slow lap around the rink, putting enough distance between them that Stiles has no choice but to try skating on his own, balanced by his hand in Jackson’s. By the time they make it back to the start, Scott and the others are gone and Jackson angles them towards the gate, letting them drift slowly to the wall.

“We’ve established that I’m better at skating,” he says.

“And you’ve agreed that I’m better at investigation,” Stiles reminds him.

Jackson lets a slow smirk grow, because he has a _plan_. “What we can’t seem to decide on is who would be better at something else. Probably because we’ve never seen the other one perform that particular skill before.”

“So a demonstration might be in order?” Stiles pulls away from Jackson, gripping the wall with his fingertips tightly as he wavers on the ice. When he glances back over his shoulder, he has his lower lip caught in his teeth, watching him uncertainly.

“If you think you’ve got something to prove, Stilinski, I’m willing to let you try.” Jackson tries to keep his tone light as he exits the rink and grabs his blade protectors from the bench. “If you think you’re up to it.”

“I’m up for it. The question is, can _you_ prove that you’re any better than me?” Stiles trips onto the rubber mats, wavers for a moment before finding his balance. “Fuck, I need to get these things off my feet. Does the ground feel weird to you?”

“Always does when I get off the ice. Like the world doesn’t move right anymore.” Jackson grabs Stiles and pushes him to the bench, bends down to help him wrestle the skates off.

“You really like this, don’t you.” It’s not a question, not the way Stiles asks it, and Jackson doesn’t bother answering. He figures it’s obvious in his body language that he does, that this place is important to him, and the ice is important.

Instead he comes to his feet, balanced easily on his protected skates, and offers Stiles a hand. “There’s a locker room,” he says, like it doesn’t matter. “I need to get changed and stow my stuff.”

It’s an invitation, or not, or maybe it’s a dare. He tries to glare like it’s a challenge, but Stiles only smirks and licks his lips, doing it again slowly when he catches Jackson watching.

Maybe Stiles will turn out to be better at giving blow jobs. Jackson’s pretty sure that’s one time he won’t mind if someone else happens to be the best.

**Author's Note:**

> The results of the contest are left as an imaginative exercise for the reader. :) In my own mind, Jackson is always better, but Stiles isn't above either cheating or learning new technique on the fly in order to try to win. Maybe they'll have to go for best two out of three...
> 
> Come find me [on tumblr](http://tryslora.tumblr.com)!


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